


printed in blood

by Patrocool (all_the_homo)



Series: in blood or ink [3]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon Era, During Strike, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Strike, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Violence, bad communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 16:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18641761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_the_homo/pseuds/Patrocool
Summary: “Don’t touch me,” Race spat, shakily standing himself. “Fuck you, Spot Conlon. Turns out I was better off without a soulmate anyways.”And with that, Race turned heel and left, leaving Spot to feel like his entire life and world had been taken away from him.*****Race feels betrayed by Brooklyn's refusal to join the strike, and Spot definitely fucked up.Can be read as a stand alone.





	printed in blood

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, look who's finally posting again! sorry this one is short, but i needed to post it, otherwise it would sit in my drafts and rot away. anyways, this can be read as a stand alone, but a few parts will make more sense if you read the other parts of the series!

Race ached as he snuck onto the back of a trolley going across the bridge. His eyes stung and something felt empty in his chest. Brooklyn didn’t show up for the strike, and they got beaten into the ground. Even worse, Crutchie got taken to the Refuge, and his throat felt tight at the thought of his friend in that place. His body ached at the reminder, and he wished he didn’t have time to think because when he had time to think, he had time to remember.

He was glad when he found himself in front of the Brooklyn Lodging House. He ignored the greetings and questions from the Brooklyn newsies as he marched upstairs and into Spot’s room with a bang of the door. 

Spot jerked around at the sight of the door, his face going from anger to recognition to confusion to anger again as he walked up quickly, reaching out for him. He was stopped by the raise of Race’s hand. 

“I didn’t come here for a chat,” Race said coldly.

Spot’s brows furrowed and his eyes flickered all over Race, trying to take in all his injuries. “Who did this to you?” He began to ask but Race plowed on, as if he hadn’t heard him. 

“Y’know… I was real excited the first time anyone ever told me about soulmates,” Race started, voice low and tight with emotion. Betrayal was written all over his face, in the way he pressed his lips together and his nostrils flared, the way that he was so clearly holding back tears. “Then, I found out who I was fancyin’, you knows that part. Hated myself a whole lot. Then you can around and that changed.” A bitter laugh erupted from his throat. His fingers were shaking. The starkness of the red in the white cloth tied around his forearm hurt to look at. “You had me goin’, Spotty-Boy, you really did. Head over heels. I went to the Refuge for you. And now Crutchie is in there because you didn’t come back us up.” That’s when he broke. The sobs finally came out and he crumpled to his knees, head bowed.

Spot felt like his stomach had bottomed out. He felt sick, like he was going to puke, and he reached out for Race. He opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t. What had he done?

Race jerked away from his touch and Spot felt like he had been slapped. That hadn’t happened since… Well, since that first week they met. Not even after the Room, Race had always somehow known it was him, felt safe with him. And he fucking ruined that.

“Don’t touch me,” Race spat, shakily standing himself. “Fuck you, Spot Conlon. Turns out I was better off without a soulmate anyways.”

And with that, Race turned heel and left, leaving Spot to feel like his entire life and world had been taken away from him. 

*****

They made the front page of the papers. When Spot saw, he knew what his choice was without a shred of doubt in his mind. He had to fight for even the chance of getting Race back, and he would gladly do so. He wouldn’t let his own stubborn ways get in the way of his soulmate. Never again.

*****

It was the night of the rally. Race kept checking the clocks, running all over the theater. As Jack’s lieutenant, he was in charge since Jack hadn’t shown his face. He ran directly into Davey and let out an apology and a weak smile.

Davey, despite not knowing Race for very long, noticed he was upset. “Hey,” he said gently, catching his arm. He was one of the only newsies who didn’t know about him and Spot, who hadn’t seen the anger and betrayal between them. “You okay?”

He scoffed, smile tight. “Don’t’ch worry your pretty head ‘bout it, Davey,” he told him. “Whaddya need?”

Davey pressed his lips together but dropped it, having more pressing matters to present. “You’ll never guess who just showed up.”

“Jack, hopefully,” Race grumbled. “Asshole betta not be late.”

Davey shook his head, cutting Race off before he could continue. “No,” he said quietly. “Brooklyn showed.”

Race opened his mouth, about to tell him were they should go before he realized exactly which borough Davey said. He swallowed. “Brooklyn?” He asked slowly, looking at him. “Is… Did Spot decide to show his ugly mug?”

Davey blinked, a bit surprised at Race’s very different attitude towards Brooklyn. “Yes, that’s what I just said,” he said uncertainly.

Race scowled and pushed up his sleeves, his hands clenching. “What a tool,” he hissed. “Thinks he can jus’ waltz in and make it all betta? I won’t let him.

Davey watched Race storm off with a hopelessly confused expression on his face. He would never understand newsies.

Unfortunately, or probably actually fortunately, the rally began before Race could get to Spot. 

Then Jack came back, and for a split second, Race thought it would be okay. Jack always took care of them. But then he fucking opened his goddamn mouth, and Race couldn’t breathe. Jack, Jack fucking Kelly, 17 year old leader of the Manhattan newsies betrayed every single newsie in that building in one fell swoop.

Spot shoved him. His face was contorted in anger. He shoved Jack hard enough to send him stumbling and the only thing Race could think was ‘Good’. 

Then a man gave Jack money and almost hit Les, and the theater erupted into chaos as the bulls invaded the scream. In his rush to get down from one of the platform on stage, he stumbled and fell, only able to cover his head as feet thundered around him. Newsies of all ages, from all boroughs, trying to evade the bulls, desperate to leave the place without getting caught. Not noticing if some of their own were under their feet.

Strong, calloused hands wrapped around him and picked him up. They were moving quickly through the crowd before Race could even see Spot’s face. “P-put me down,” he said.

“No time,” Spot shot back, managing to squeeze his way out the backdoor of the stage and into the alleyway. He lifted Race up to grab the fire escape and together, they scrambled to the roof, and used a board to scramble to another building. From there, they hid under a ledge. Calloused fingers intertwined with long thin ones. Brown eyes met blue.

“I’m sorry,” Spot whispered, gently cupping his cheek. “You’re right. I shoulda trusted you and the rest of ‘Hattan. We shoulda been there.”

“Jack betrayed us,” Race whispered back, voice trembling.

Spot simply pulled him close and let him cry.

*****

“Do we really trust Jack again?” Spot asked doubtfully.

“We ain’t trustin’ Jack. We’se trustin’ Kath and Davey,” Race corrected quietly, adjusting his sleeve as they walked. “That girl… She knows what she’s doin’. Davey too.”

Spot pressed his lips together. “And what exactly is it that we’se doin’?”

Race flashed a smile that was all teeth. They gleamed in the early morning moonlight. Sunrise was still a good few hours away. “Plannin’ a city-wide children strike, of course.”

“Of course,” Spot echoed with a sigh. “Why wouldn’t that be what we’se doin’.”

Race continued to grin wickedly as he waited for Jack’s cue. Newsies started to crowd around, staying in the shadows to remain unseen. When Jack shouted, Race opened the window into the basement of Pulitzer’s own building. “Well, my love? You first.”

Spot scoffed and easily slid in, followed closely by Albert, then Specs, Soda and Strings, and a hoard of newsies, all buzzing with nervousness, determination, and excitement. Race opened three other windows and slid in to go report in with Jack as the basement filled up.

He watched as Bill and Darcy started off the old press, whistling lowly as it made the papes. He took a stack and bound it with twine and smirked. “Extra, extra!” He called mockingly, tossing the stack to the nearest newsie, who passed it along to the top and outside to newsies waiting to go to the farthest ends of the city first. They found a rhythm quickly and before they knew it, every newsie had a stack or two of flyers to give out by dawn.

Race followed Spot and Crunch to Brooklyn. He headed towards the docks, giving to dock boys, to telegram boys, to the girls at the seamstresses, to the bakers, and the errand runners, to any and every kid he saw. And when he ran out, he went to find Spot, hoping to walk back with him to the protest.

They found each other just as a wave of working kids started to flock across the Brooklyn Bridge. Shoulder to shoulder, walking in unison, as one large, angry crowd. Some kids had hastily made signs that they held close to their bodies. Hundreds of voices overlapped.

They marched.

Spot and Race squeezed to the front of the crowd at Newsie Square, looking out over the sea of people, the youngest probably 5, and the oldest being probably nineteen or twenty. There was a group of girls hastily sewing their aprons together to make a banner, and borrowing some paint that an errand boy had been delivering to write “CHILDREN RIGHTS” on it. Across the way from them, a mixture of newsies and telegram boys were helping some of the younger and more adventurous kids to climb up where they could see and be seen. Dock workers were breaking down crates to make signs, and factory kids were handing out strips of cloth to wrap around knuckles in case the bulls showed. 

Race’s smile slowly grew. He climbed the steps to stand next to Jack, Davey, and Les. Crunch and Spot walked up behind him to watch as well.

“Well, Cowboy,” Race said, pulling out a cigar. He stuck it in his mouth, not wanting to light it yet. “Ya think the old man will die at the sight of so many dirty street rats on his stoop?”

Jack scoffed, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “It’ll take more than that to get’em, but we’ll get there.”

Race nodded slowly. “You best be right, Kelly. These kids… They ain’t gonna settle. You’se started a damn revolution.”

Spot glanced at Race and then at Jack. “You can neva jus’ let it be, Kelly, can you?”

A snort followed, and Jack looked smug as he smirked at Spot. “I wouldn’t be Jack Kelly if I did, now would I?”

*****

They won. Of course they won. It was over, and they had the goddamn governor on their side.

A grin broke across Race’s face as he punched the air, elation filling him as he whooped and cheered with everyone else. He was laughing and swatting at the others, celebrating. He was all over anyone near him, and yet, Spot had eyes only for him. A faint, fond smile crept his way across his lips as he watched Race. He was still bloodied and bruised, but none of it seemed to matter as he excitedly wrapped Crutchie up in a huge hug.

Spot’s chest felt warm.

*****

It was the day after the strike, and Race was selling at Sheepshead as usual when Spot came by with a sandwich cut in half. 

“Take a break with me,” he requested, and he did.

They sat on the very dock Race had sat on with Boots so long ago. Race watched the water and Spot watched him. They ate their sandwiches in silence.

“I’m sorry,” Spot said softly, after finishing his half. He studied the freckles on Race’s cheeks as he tilted his head towards him, waiting for him to explain. The sun turned his blonde hair into spun gold. “It just… You weren’t the one to come over to ask.”

Race said nothing, simply raised an eyebrow.

Spot let out a soft sigh and pursed his lips. “You hadn’t come to Brooklyn the day before, and I know you don’t always come to Brooklyn and I wasn’t worried about it, but after it wasn’t you to come to ask me to join the strike-” He grimaced and picked at the boards. “Well. I didn’t like it. I was angry and stubborn. And I’m really sorry.”

There was silence as Race studied him, and then he sighed and laid a hand on Spot’s knee. “You’re stupid,” he said softly. “You’re just lucky I find it endearing.”

Spot glanced up at him, hesitation in his face, and Race huffed out a laugh. “I forgive you,” he said, exasperated and fond. “Now come on, we’ve got papes to sell.” He stood and held out his hand, and Spot gladly took it.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos make me smile, comments make my day!
> 
> Please commission me to write some stuff!
> 
> My tumblr is Patrocool, come talk to me!
> 
> (Also, I will have a blush fic written in this universe for yall very soon. it already has over 4000 words, im trying to hit 5000. comments encourage me!)


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